Slayground

by Don Pendleton

  About five hundred yards from the service road, he noticed a semicircular patch of bare earth, likely formed by vehicles repeatedly cutting into the vegetation. Bolan figured it was likely to have been the sheriff’s transport resting up or lying in wait for traffic violations. He might as well take advantage; he didn’t intend to be long, and even if he encountered law enforcement because of this incursion, he could make use of the situation for further intel.

  After pulling as far in as possible to shield the sedan from casual view, Bolan got out and shouldered the duffel bag, then took his bearings and headed into the overgrown flora that bordered the blacktop. He would probably be safe in that spot for a while, as it was still early and he had seen no traffic since leaving town. Evidently they were not believers in rising early in these parts.

  The ground was soft, spongy with every step, and the roots and vines threatened to entangle his feet. There was no path, and he had to pick his way around tree trunks and thick brush. He could hear the scurrying of small animals as his approach scared them, the distant splashes as they ran through pools of water and mud in their bid to escape. Leaves in the canopy rustled as his progress disturbed birds nesting above his head. The constant background rattle and hum of insects made it hard for him to isolate any sounds that would indicate another human presence. If the senator’s daughter was being kept captive against her will, then it was an outside possibility that the cult would have defensive patrols around their base. Come to that, given the nature of the cult, it was possible they would do so anyway. Their beliefs would incline them to paranoia.

  Despite the early hour, the sun already bore down and the heat pulled humid puffs of steam from the soil. He could feel sweat start to prickle on his scalp and the small of his back.

  Bolan pressed on, zigzagging as the vegetation dictated. He advanced half a mile through the dense undergrowth before he hit a sparser, more barren stretch. Through the filigree of leaves on bushes that sprouted along its length he could see the gap where the service road cut through the growth, leading to the old amusement park. The ground here was sodden, and it sucked at his boots. Having to almost pull his foot free with each step slowed him down, and he sought a slightly firmer footing. The muck explained why there was less growth along this edge, and also why the service road had been built up, to add a firmer base.

  Cursing softly to himself, he moved back into the denser, harder-to-negotiate undergrowth. The road and the stretch running parallel to it would leave him too exposed, too close to the park entrance.

  Circling out so he would reach Eveland’s perimeter a good distance from the entrance, he stopped suddenly, senses quivering. Lurking beneath the sounds of the small animals and birds there was something else, something rhythmic and barely discernible. He was sure it was regular footfalls, now approaching him. He located the sound as coming from his right and about three hundred yards away. He was caught between what he must assume was an oncoming enemy and the edge of the park.

  Bolan moved slowly forward, angling away from the footsteps. He kept low, using the bushes for cover. As the footfalls grew closer, he realized that there was more than one set. The rhythm was out of sync, an effect created by chance, and revealing that there were two people, one in pursuit of the other. Judging from the lack of urgency, he presumed that whoever was being tracked was unaware that he had someone on his tail.

  Bolan drew back into the plentiful cover, unsheathing the TEKNA. The less sound he made, the better.

  He waited only a few moments before the first footsteps were close enough for their maker to be revealed by the parting of the undergrowth: a woman, unarmed, with a rucksack on her shoulder. She was splattered with mud and looked far from happy. She was wearing shorts, and one leg showed a number of scrapes and cuts, presumably from a fall, but not deep enough to make her limp.

  It wasn’t Elena Anders. For a moment, Bolan wondered if he’d struck it lucky, but a second look quashed that hope. Whoever this woman was, however, one thing was certain: the Seven Stars didn’t like her snooping around. She yelled in fright a fraction of a second before the tree in front of her was splintered and pulped by a heavy-duty shell. The deadened cough of the rifle told the soldier that the tracker had a clear sight of the woman, but was maybe not the best shot. Good. That gave him a chance to save her—whoever she was—and to halt her pursuer.

  The woman was flat on the ground, sobbing and paralyzed with fear. The undergrowth around her kept her shielded to an extent. For the moment, her assailant likely couldn’t see her.

  Problem was, Bolan couldn’t see him, either. Or hear him. The soldier scanned the thick covering before him, but detected no movement. He needed to get the woman out of the line of fire and draw the shooter into the open.

  He slipped the TEKNA back into its sheath and pulled the HK from its holster, setting it to single shot and staring into the foliage. From the damage on the tree, he could narrow down the area the bullet had come from. More than one shot would attract undue attention from the amusement park occupants. The shooter had a rifle, and a three-shot burst would betray another presence. Bolan needed to place this as close as he could estimate....

  The woman yelped in fear again as he loosed a shot. It crashed through the undergrowth and took a chunk out of a tree. There was no sound to betray the presence of the gunman, and for a moment Bolan thought the ploy had failed. But then a shadowy figure stepped out of cover and shot again, this time in the soldier’s direction. Bolan stood firm, knowing that he was hidden and that the rifleman was firing blindly. The shot smashed through the branches above him, high and wide. He stood his ground, keeping out of view while he took a sighting. Now he knew where he was firing.

  He sent another single shot into the shadows, where his quarry had retreated. The woman remained where she was, crying gently and muttering to herself between sobs.

  Bolan watched intently as the round disappeared into the undergrowth. There was little indication of whether or not it had struck home. He waited, listening for any signs of movement. The woman was starting to crawl across the ground. If she got to her feet she would become a target again, and that was the last thing Bolan wanted.

  Who was she? If he could get her away from here, she might be able to share some intel on the cult.

  To his right, Bolan noticed a ripple in the bushes. The last shot had not taken his man, but had been close enough to make him change positions. He was obviously trying to get a better view of the area where Bolan was secreted, but this brought the gunman closer to the woman’s position—too close for the soldier to risk it.

  He slipped the HK back into the holster and palmed the TEKNA. Picking his way through the undergrowth, he ran parallel to the path of his intended target, who was easily traceable by the rippling trail he left in his wake. Bolan, on the other hand, was able to move silently without betraying his position. He crossed in front of his prey so that he could circle around and take him from the opposite side, where he would least expect an attack.

  In position, Bolan waited for the man to blunder past him. He crashed through the undergrowth within a few yards of where Bolan stood. The shooter was young, no older than his early twenties, and appeared nervous, his eyes staring wildly and his mouth clenched in a rictus of fear. He held the rifle downward, but both hands gripped it tightly enough to make the skin whiten at the knuckles. He was hyped up, and the slightest provocation could make him fire wildly.

  The soldier didn’t want stray shells flying around—not with the woman so close to them.

  He let the man pass, and then slipped into his wake. Bolan took two steps to catch up, then snaked one arm around the man’s throat, pulling him backward, while the other arm punched up, driving the knife into the shooter’s kidneys. Bolan’s tight squeeze on his throat strangled any cry for help, or of pain. He twisted the knife before pulling it out and stabbing the man again, this time slipping
the TEKNA under the ribs and angling up. He felt the man slump against him, and braced himself for the full deadweight. He extracted the knife and stepped away, letting the enemy fall to the dirt, his eyes staring sightlessly, blood bubbling from his mouth.

  Bolan took the rifle from the dead man and slung it over his shoulder. He wiped the TEKNA on the guy’s shirt and sheathed it before taking stock of his surroundings.

  There was no sign that anyone else had been patrolling the swamp with the rifleman. The only sounds Bolan could pick out, other than wildlife, were the sobbing and muttering of the woman.

  He needed to find out who she was and what had brought her here. But first it was imperative that they get back on the road. There was no knowing how long it would be before the dead man was missed, and Bolan intended to be a long way from here when anyone from the Seven Stars came looking.

  As a soft probe, this outing had not been satisfactory. Bolan could only hope that he’d be able to get some intel from the woman to make up for this. Either way, he had to get her to safety. Bolan swiftly moved back to where she crouched in the grass. She scrambled to her feet, staring wildly as she tried to back up, turn and run. Bolan realized that she could see the rifle slung across his shoulders, and was understandably panicked. Now was not the time for words. As she slipped and slithered on the damp ground, trying to get her footing, he covered the distance in a few strides and took her by the arm. She tried to scream, and he covered her mouth. She bit into his hand. He winced at the pain but kept her mouth firmly covered.

  “Shut up, come with me, or else they’ll get you. The man who shot at you is dead. We will be, too, unless you listen....”

  He doubted that there was anyone else in immediate range, but his choice of words had the desired effect. Her eyes blazed and then registered confusion. He felt her bite relax, and he took his hand away. She had drawn blood from the edge of his palm.

  “Sorry,” she said as he studied the wound.

  “Time for that later,” he snapped, pulling her after him as he retraced his steps toward the blacktop and his sedan. She stumbled in his wake, barely keeping on her feet, her breath coming in gasps. As they approached the pull-off where he had parked, he heard voices. He stopped and gestured for her to be quiet and stay where she was. She nodded at this, and he crept forward.

  Inching as close to the edge of the undergrowth as possible, Bolan could see that a sheriff’s vehicle was parked just in front of his rental. The vehicle’s two occupants, a man and a woman, were speaking, and Bolan could make out the static chatter of the patrol car’s radio.

  The two uniforms began poking around the sedan and gazing idly up and down the road. Bolan gathered that they considered the car to be abandoned. They didn’t seem to be worried about what, if anything, had happened to any passengers. Both of them were carrying the excess weight around the middle that spoke of too long sitting in patrol cars with no action, and both seemed more concerned with the fact that their parking space had been taken than with anything else.

  Bolan returned to the woman and explained what was happening on the road. “We’ve got no one on our asses from the Seven Stars,” he whispered. “Are you one of them?”

  She shook her head mutely.

  “Then we need to wait until the sheriff’s people leave. Unless they want to impound the damn car....”

  “We don’t have to do that,” she said, finally finding her voice. It was surprisingly deep and rich for someone with such a slender frame.

  “Why not?” Bolan asked.

  “I bet I know them,” she said with a grin. “Better lose that, though,” she added, indicating the rifle he was still carrying.

  She took the lead, rising and walking out toward the turnout, beckoning for him to follow. He slipped the rifle off his shoulders, losing it under a thick fern at his feet, then followed.

  The woman pushed her way noisily through the bushes, Bolan a few steps behind, causing the two law enforcement officers to whirl around.

  To Bolan’s surprise, rather than drawn weapons, they were met with recognition. The female officer gave Bolan an appreciative once-over.

  “Hey, Martha, what brings you out here? Some cockamamie UFO bullshit? Or something a little more personal?” she added, with a wink.

  “Something like that,” Martha replied, blushing as she glanced at Bolan.

  Chapter 5

  The cinder block building was pitch-black inside, and as hot as a stevedore’s armpit after a twelve-hour shift. About as fragrant, too. The heat bearing down on the windowless structure was sucked in and amplified until even the packed earth under Elena’s body was hot as she lay flat and tried to draw some coolness from the ground beneath her. The air was unpleasantly humid. Elena had been in the building since her audience with Ricke some time before, but she had no way of judging how long that had really been. She slept intermittently. When meals were brought to her it was always daylight, but she couldn’t tell what time of day, or whether they were regular. Her stomach told her it was a long time between meals, but given the portions and the quality of the food, her hunger could be deceptive.

  Her only water was in a large plastic bottle that was topped up occasionally from some tepid source. It tasted foul; whoever had cleaned out the bottle after its previous use had failed—purposely or not—to do a decent job of it.

  The only thing that kept her from complete despair was the knowledge that Ricke was no fool. Mad, yes, but not stupid. He didn’t want her to die. She had information that he wanted, and in order to get it he had to keep her alive. That was something to cling to when it seemed as though the only way out of the cinder block building would be death.

  If she could get out, then she might have another crack at escaping the compound.

  If...

  Right now, she had no strength, and her will was being sapped and drained from her like the moisture she was losing in sweat.

  “Get up, bitch, the man wants you.”

  She blinked into the blinding brightness of the open doorway. Haloed by the light was a thin figure, a rifle dangling from his right hand.

  “Duane, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear shit from you. You’ve been a big disappointment to me. The man, now, he still thinks you’re worth bothering with. That’s why I ain’t just taken you out back and put a bullet in your head. Might do, though, if he loses patience.”

  His tone was conversational, which made his words all the more chilling. She had no doubt he meant what he said. Ricke could be pushed only so far. She wondered what she should offer up that would keep him interested, yet wouldn’t betray any of the national secrets her father had trusted her with.

  Duane stepped across the dirt floor, his silhouette blocking the light. Her eyes didn’t adjust quickly enough, and so she was unprepared for the heavy kick he put into her ribs. She coughed up bile as the blow winded her, and spit it onto the floor. Before she had a chance to gather her wits, he had taken her under one armpit with his free hand and jerked her up as if she was featherlight. She scrambled to her knees and then her feet to keep up with the momentum and prevent him from dislocating her shoulder. She tripped and nearly fell as he hauled her outside.

  The cinder block building—at one time a gas and oil store for the generators on some of the rides—was set away from the main residential area of the compound. Elena’s muscles, cramped and aching from lack of exercise, protested as Duane strode toward the main buildings, dragging her after him. She fell and scraped her knees, ripping skin as she tried to find leverage with her feet and get upright. She squinted, finding it hard to focus in the harsh glare.

  There were members of the cult nearby, going about their business. She couldn’t identify them with tears filling her eyes, but she could see just about well enough to know that they were looking at her as she was dragged past. So why didn’
t they do anything? Were they so brainwashed that they just assumed she was a transgressor who deserved what she got? Or were they too scared to speak up or act?

  Why would they? Wouldn’t she have been like that herself at one point? It wasn’t something that she felt comfortable admitting, but it was true....

  They stopped in front of Ricke’s door, and Duane banged on it. “Got the bitch,” he yelled, grinning at her. “Waste of time, you ask me...”

  “No one did ask you,” Ricke said in an icy tone as he opened the door. He looked them both up and down with an expression of contempt and distaste. “Bring her in. I thought I told you to be careful with her,” he added as he turned and walked over to his desk, seating himself behind it. He studied some papers in front of him in a staged manner, for effect, as Duane shoved Elena into a chair opposite.

  “I have tried to be patient with you, my dear,” Ricke continued, without glancing up. “I understand family loyalties. Truly, I do. They are the strongest emotional and psychological ties we have, and therefore the biggest obstacles to attaining our own true selves and our purest aims. That’s why I’m so keen on the idea of deprogramming, to open ourselves to the truth before our eyes.”

  Elena wished she was back in the cinder block building. It might be a hellhole, but at least it was better than listening to the self-justifying crap Ricke was spewing.

  “I was hoping you would have realized this, and realized that we can help you to help yourself. It would make your life so much easier, and that would be preferable to how it is now, would it not?” he added, in such a reasonable tone that, in her weakened state, she could almost see his point.

  Almost, but not quite. “I don’t know what you think I know,” she began slowly, finding her mind and mouth dulled by her confinement.

  “I don’t know what you know, Elena. That is the point,” Ricke interrupted. “I want you to tell me.” His voice had that lilting, rhythmic quality that had sucked her in the first time she’d heard it. She tried to fight it.